An Irish Tail
by NoahRoanSeville
Summary: A young Irishmouse and hs father set off for America.


In the hills of Ireland, in the corner of a little thatched cottage of a well-to-do Irish farmer and his family lived another little family: a family of mice. O' Squeakhail (O-Squeal) was their name. They had lived in these hills nearly as long as humans. Their mice ancestors were once-honored allies of the ancient Celts. Because of this, the O' Squeakhails lived in peace with their human counterparts.

But, sadly, one cold winter's day, there was no peace. Only sorrow.

Mother O' Squeakhail had fallen ill with the fever. And now her time had come. After the priest came and gave her the Last Rites, she weakly called to her husband and her young son, Noah, a small little mouse with his father's golden fur and his mother's emerald eyes.

"Do not… mourn me, me loves. I'm going home." She rasped.

Noah sniffled. "Ma… when you get to Heaven… tell Jesus t' watch over me."

Mrs. O' Squeakhail weakly stroked her son's cheek, wiping a tear away. "Mo Buachaill… I won't have t' tell him… he already…does."

Mrs. O' Squeakhail's eyes closed for the last time.

-  
As his mother was laid to rest just outside of her favorite church, Noah looked up at his stoic father. "Da… what are we gonna do now?"

Mr. O' Squeakhail sighed. "Y'know, son, yer mother always wanted t' see America. She had heard all kinds of o' stories."

"What kinds of stories?" Noah asked.

"Well… in America, yer free t' practice whatever religion ya wish."

Noah's eyes widened. "So…. In America, I could say me prayers? All of 'em?"

"As many times as ya like." Mr. O' Squeakhail smiled.

"An' I could sing in our language? Even th' rebel songs?"

"As loud as ya please."

"Da… why don't we go to America? If Ma wanted to go, shouldn't we go? As a memor…memer… as a way t' remember her?"

Mr. O' Squeakhail knelt and looked his son in the eye. "Noah, Eire is our ancestral home. Our fathers… an' mothers all worked this land. Died for it."

Noah harrumphed. "If this is our land, why do those stupid cats from Briton make up all the rules? Why can't we pray like St. Patrick taught us to? Why can't we-?"

A large shadow suddenly loomed over the two of them. "Well, now, what's all this, then?" A well-groomed cat stood above them, his yellow eyes leering. "Have we a small rebel in our midst?"

Noah stood his ground. "How c'n I be a rebel in me own land? If anythin', yer th' invaders. An' in ancient times, 'twas th' invaders who were assim… assam… taken out."

The cat growled. "Watch your tongue, boy. Or I'll have to cut it out."

Mr. O' Squeakhail covered his son's mouth. "He meat nothin' by it, milord. He's but a child… overcome by grief."

The cat looked at them for a moment, then turned away. "See that his tone is guarded, mouse… or he'll be joining your wife."

Behind his father's hand, Noah spat an Irish curse. Thankfully, only his father heard. When the cat had gone, Mr. O' Squeakhail grabbed his son's shoulders and looked him in the eye.

"Noah, yer mother wouldn't want ya throwin' yer life away like this! Haven't we taught ya better."

"Da, what good is life if we can't live it th' way we're meant to? Tiptoin' around those cats like slaves? We're not slaves! We're mice of Eire. Warriors, scholars, poets… but these cats are stealin' tha' from us!" Noah looked at his mother's grave. "Ma wanted t' see America. Maybe not fer her… but fer us. Fer freedom."

Mr. O' Squeakhail looked at the grave for a moment. "Son… yer right. Perhaps our fate lies in America." He turned his attention to his son. "But if we go, promise me, one day, when I join yer mother in Heaven, that you'll bury me beside her."

Noah nodded. "Aye, father."

-  
Soon, the two were on a boat heading for New York, USA. Noah looked at the boat excitedly as he, his father, and many other Irishmice watched Ireland fade away on the horizon. Mr. O' Squeakhail put a hand to his heart. "Farewell, Eire… may we meet again."

Noah took his father's hand. "You'll see, Da. America will be great. We'll be free t' pray t' Jesus, t' sing in Irish, t' be O' Squeakhail mice."

Mr. O' Squeakhail smiled at his son. "Noah, m'boy, yer a ray o' Heaven's light, ya are." The two went below deck with the other mice. Mice spanning all different walks of life, all creeds, all faiths. Noah noticed a little mouseling, no older than two, whimpering with fear. His mother tried to soothe him but to no avail. The sight of the poor, frightened baby made Noah's heartache. Taking note of Noah's empathy, his father knelt. "Perhaps ya could sing t' him like yer mother did fer you when ya got scared. Ya remember th' words o' yer ma's song, right?"

Noah nodded. "Aye, Da." Noah walked over to the mother, who looked at him quizzically. "Please, may I sing t' him? It'll calm him." He asked gently.

The mother nodded after a moment. She repositioned the child so he was facing Noah. Smiling, Noah took the boy's song and began to sing in a soft, calm voice.

"Little miracle, so pure and so blessed,  
Now is the time for you to rest.  
Lay down your sweet head  
On a pillow of white.  
Sleep now, sweet child,  
On this perfect night.

And if you should wake,  
If you have a fright,  
Come to me, little one,  
I'll hold ya tight.  
In me arms, yer safe,  
In me arms, yer loved,  
Cuz yer a sweet blessin'  
From God up above.

Lay down your sweet head  
On a pillow of white.  
Sleep now, sweet child,  
On this perfect night."

The boy wiped his eyes and giggled. His mother smiled. "Grazie. Thank-a you."

"'Tis no trouble," Noah replied. He stroked the child's cheek. "Don't be scared. America will be amazin'. We'll be free t' be who we're meant t' be."

Mr. O' Squeakhail beamed proudly at his son.

-  
When the boat docked in America, Mr. O' Squeakhail led Noah to a large line where hundreds of mice were waiting to make their way in America. Eventually, the two stopped in front of a kiosk. "Name?" the mouse behind the kiosk asked.

"O' Squeakhail. Irish name. Spelled S-q-u-e-a-k-h-a-i-l." Noah's father replied.

"Welcome to New York, Mr... O' Squeak."

Noah gasped. "Da! He changed our name!"

"Perhaps in our documents, son. But do ya feel any different?"

"No." Noah admitted.

"Then we're still O' Squeakhail mice. Americans just like takin' things easy. An' why wouldn't they? America! A land o' opportunity!"

As the two explored their new country, they noticed an old mouse sighing as he locked up what seemed to be a pub. "Here, now, sir, what're ya doin'?" Mr. O' Squeak asked. "M'boy an' I just got off th' boat. We need somewhere t' wet our whistles."

The old mouse looked up at him. His fur was white, but his green eyes showed he was of the same stalk. "Alas, sir, I've been here since '45 an' no one wanted me wares. Too bitter, they said. Utter trash."

Mr. O' Squeak looked the old mouse over. Aside from being advanced in age, he was also dreadfully thin. "Forgive me fer sayin' so, sir, but ya hardly seem th' drink mixin' kind."

The old man stood erect, glaring at the new arrival. "An' ya think ya c'n do better?"

"Back home, Da's Sarsaparillas were known across Dublin, Antrim, Galway, an' Limerick!" Noah bragged.

"Sarsaparillas, eh?" the old mouse contemplated that for a moment. "I never learned t' make those." He grinned. "Tell ya what, O' Squeak, you c'n have it an' my tenant buildin' across th' street."

Mr. O' Squeak blinked. "What about ya, then?"

The old mouse shrugged. "I'm old, ya said it yerself. Maybe I'll visit family down in Boston." He shook Mr. O' Squeak's hand. "Best o' luck."

Noah smiled as his father unlocked the door. "Talk about th' land o' opportunity."

Mr. O' Squeak chuckled as he opened the darkened pub. "Well, let's get t' work. Opportunity only knocks once, I hear."

-  
Father and son worked their hardest to clean up the bar. Noah begged money on the streets so his father could buy quality sarsaparilla ingredients, as the old mouse's stock had withered away from never being used. One day, as he did this by dancing and singing rebel songs, he noticed the little Italian mouse from the ship toddling up to him. He smiled. "Well, hello, little one. Where's yer mama, hmm?"

"Oh! Alphonso, there-a you are!" the boy's mother ran up and grabbed him. "You-a scared me!"

"Hello there, ma'am." Noah smiled.

The mother mouse smiled. "Why, hello. Fancy meeting you-a here. We were never-a introduced. My name is-a Gianna Mozerelli and-a this is Alphonso."

"Noah O' Squeak. Say, would ya care fer a drink? We even have milk fer Alphonso."

"That'd be delightful." Gianna smiled.

With that, the pub would gain a reputation as O' Squeak's Sarsaparilla. Customers of all creeds came to try it. Gianna and little Alphonso were frequent customers. It was through them that the reputation began to grow. Gianna even suggested that Noah sang while the patrons drank. That, in turn, made the reputation grow even more. And Noah enjoyed it. Sometimes, parents would bring their kids. Noah recalled a brown-furred mouse with his parents who watched excitedly as Noah performed an ancient Celtic dance. The patrons would throw coins onstage, which Noah would use to buy drinks for them in return (though he did put a few away for a rainy day).

\- Epilogue, 2 years later-

One morning, as Noah and his father opened up the pub, Noah looked at the stage. "Da… I'd like t' help tend bar."

"Sorry, son. We'd have t' find another singer fer tha'."

"A singer?" A little mouse with a big blue hat asked as he walked by the pub.

"Aye, lad. Ya know one?" Mr. O' Squeak asked.

"Uh-huh. My big sister, Tanya loves to sing."

Mr. O' Squeak smiled. "What's yer name, son?"

"Fievel, sir. Fievel Mousekewitz."

"Noah, fetch this lad a sarsaparilla, on th' house. It looks like we have somethin' t' discuss."

Noah smiled. "Aye, Da. C'mon, Fievel."

After mixing the lad a proper Sarsaparilla, the O' Squeaks sat down with him. "So, yer sister, Tanya, was it?" Mr. O' Squeak asked.

"Yeah! She sings real good. All kinds of stuff!" Fievel replied.

"Well, we may need a few more instruments t' accommodate another singer." Noah said.

"My papa makes violins if that's what you're looking for." Fievel suggested.

The O' Squeaks looked at each other and smiled. "Okay, Fievel. Bring yer sister here t'night an' we'll give her an audition. Deal?" Mr. O' Squeak asked.

"Deal!" Fievel replied.


End file.
